Page 37 of Claimed By The Club
I move toward her, placing a steady hand on her arm. “We won’t let them near you. That’s a promise.”
Her shoulders sag. “This is too much.”
I guide her to the cot, letting her sit. I kneel, taking her hands in mine. “We’ve faced worse. The key is staying united. If you trust me, trust us, we’ll handle it.”
She blinks back tears of frustration. Then, jaw set, she nods. “Okay. I’m in this. I just… hate feeling helpless.”
I stand, pulling her gently to her feet. “You’re far from helpless. The club needs your brains to keep afloat financially. You’re doing more than you realize.”
A faint smile graces her lips, though fear lingers in her eyes. “All right. Let’s face them.”
I help her smooth her hair, both of us trying to look less disheveled. The flush of our interrupted passion remains, a promise of what might have been if reality hadn’t knocked on the door. With a final shared look, we exit the room, stepping into the corridor where the noise of the clubhouse envelops us.
We head toward the main lounge, side by side. As we pass the chipped walls and rows of old photos, I can’t help recalling Ghost’s expression when he walked in. He’s never been the jealous type, but that scenario would rattle anyone. Then there’s Frost—who might also have strong opinions about how these lines blur among us. Yet part of me hopes they can see that Sierra’s presence has changed our dynamic in a way that might be okay if we’re all honest.
Stepping into the lounge, we find Ghost waiting with Frost by the pool table. A few other members hover, curious about what’s up. The moment we approach, Frost’s gaze flicks to Sierra, then to me. Something akin to suspicion sparks in his eyes, but he focuses on the matter at hand. He’s the President, after all, and the club’s safety trumps personal drama.
“Everyone’s here?” Frost asks, voice tight.
I glance around. Ghost nods, arms folded. Sierra stands near me, crossing her own arms. We’re about to address the possibility of a traitor—a crisis that could tear us apart from the inside. My chest tightens, adrenaline humming. This is a turning point. If we fail, the Reapers gain an unstoppable advantage. If we succeed, we might finally drive them out of our territory and secure Sierra’s place among us.
“Let’s do this,” I say quietly, stepping forward to brief the gathered members. All the while, Sierra stays within my peripheral vision, the memory of her touch still electric on my skin, overshadowed by the threat we face but not forgotten. Because when this dust settles, we still have that unresolvedmoment, that undeniable spark, and the knowledge that Ghost has seen how far I’m willing to go.
In the back of my mind, I recall the words I told Sierra: We share. The club is built on loyalty, forging unique bonds that outsiders might never understand. Now, more than ever, we need that unity to withstand whatever the Reapers and our unknown traitor throw at us next.
13
SIERRA
I’m alone in the small side office, watching a digital clock on the desk tick away the minutes. Papers from this morning’s meeting are scattered around: charts detailing last week’s bar earnings, lists of members assigned to watch shifts, and a few proposals for expanding our new merch line. My eyes skim the numbers without registering them, my mind too preoccupied by the swirling tension in the clubhouse.
Word about a traitor has traveled quickly, fueling a steady hum of paranoia in every corridor. People who once gathered in easy camaraderie now exchange guarded glances, uncertain who might be feeding the Reapers information. It’s a heavy weight, and the realization that my name keeps popping up in those leaked details only magnifies the anxiety.
I push to my feet and scoop up the papers, intending to file them away in the back room. But as I step into the hallway, I hear laughter—high-pitched, a little cruel. The sound sets my nerves on edge. Turning the corner, I spot three women in tight denim and leather vests, leaning against a wall covered in old club photos. They stop talking the instant they see me, their eyes cutting in my direction.
One of them, a tall blonde, arches an eyebrow. “Oh, look, it’s the VIP guest of the hour.”
The second, a brunette with a half-shaved head—snickers. “Enjoying the special treatment, princess?”
There’s no kindness in their tone. My throat tightens. These must be a few of the biker groupies who hang around, hoping to score attention from club members. I try for a polite nod, not wanting trouble. “Evening,” I say, moving to walk past them.
They block my way, exchanging smirks. The third, a woman with curly red hair, tilts her head. “Word is you’re getting real cozy with certain high-ranking men.” She rolls her eyes. “Guess any outsider can waltz in and stir things up.”
Heat flares in my chest. “I’m just doing my job, trying to help?—”
The redhead snorts. “Sure you are. Meanwhile, Church meetings are getting tense. Fights breaking out, accusations flying. Everyone’s whispering that it’s ‘cause of you. Maybe you’re dividing them.”
That accusation hits like a punch. I swallow, heart pounding. “I’m not trying to cause conflict. The Reapers are the real enemy. We’re trying to protect?—”
The tall blonde waves me off. “Don’t care about your sob story. Just letting you know people see the strain you’re causing. Maybe you should vanish before it gets worse.”
Her words slash at my composure, but I refuse to let them see me crumble. I gather the papers tighter against my chest. “Thanks for the advice,” I say stiffly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
They laugh, turning away to murmur among themselves, and I slip past, fighting the urge to run. My cheeks burn, a mix of anger, shame, and genuine worry that maybe they’re right. The club has been on edge since I arrived, and with the suspicion of a traitor, everything’s magnified.
I leave the papers in a filing cabinet, then hurry out to the main lounge. A few men stand in clusters, talking in hushed voices. They glance up, but I quickly break eye contact, anxious to find Frost before I lose my nerve. Since the traitor rumors began swirling, he’s been juggling crises, rarely stopping to talk to me. Part of me wonders if he’s avoiding me on purpose.
I stride down a corridor leading to an office space typically used for higher-level discussions. At the far end, I spot Frost closing a door behind Axel. Axel walks off in another direction, leaving Frost alone. My heart pounds as I approach. His gaze sweeps over me, a flicker of concern crossing those ice-blue eyes.
